


Jingle Man Jump

by mizsphinx



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Card Games, F/M, Kink Meme, Oral Sex, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizsphinx/pseuds/mizsphinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a Sunday afternoon and Natasha is feeling quite bored. Loki helps her pass the time. </p><p>Written for the Avengers Kink Meme on LiveJournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jingle Man Jump

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This was the prompt for this fic:
> 
> All I want is an intensely descriptive scene of Natasha going down on Loki. I'm suddenly way into this pairing and oral is my favorite thing ever in smut. lol what is plot
> 
> Please no dub-con/non-con or pain play.
> 
> [Bonus Points] - Loki has never had a blowjob before. Of course Natasha rectifies this situation.

**Jingle Man Jump**

  
“Let’s play a game.”  
  
He doesn’t look at her right away, and Natasha grows irritated by this. Why must everything be some sort of power play with him? Would it kill him to do as he was told just once and without any protest or obstinacy?  
  
Finally, after he’s pleased himself letting her wait for his response, he looks up from the book he’s reading. The image of Loki doing normal, human things never ceases to unsettle Natasha. The fact that he now lives with them is disturbing, to be honest. Nevertheless, it does not dissuade her curiosity about this god of mischief; forced to remain on earth to pay his penance for attempting to subjugate its inhabitants.  
  
He looks simultaneously interested and calculating. “What sort of game?”  
  
Yes, what sort of game? It is Sunday afternoon and she is bored out of her mind. Clint has carried Steve and Thor to some car racing event (she can only imagine the hilarity of Thor screaming: “They are like Asgardian beetles!”), Tony is out with Pepper, and Bruce…well, she hasn’t seen Bruce all day. She has completed her requisite daily training, sharpened her knives, cleaned her guns, swam, played a bit of Solitaire (her secret guilty pleasure), and now, she’s been watching television for the past hour, though she can’t remember exactly what she’s been viewing.  
  
She lifts the remote and turns the television off. Her gaze slides to meet his.  
  
“A card game. You ever played cards before?”  
  
“Of course I have,” he says in haughty tones, and Natasha knows he is lying. Albeit he perpetually speaks as if he’s royalty forced to suffer the company of idiotic monkeys, Natasha has somehow learnt the inflections of his voice during his six month stay.  
  
Eying him, Natasha stands and heads to her room. She returns with a deck of cards still in their soft cardboard casing. She removes the cards from the casing and begins to shuffle them. Occasionally, she and Clint like to play, so a few of the cards are bent and feature scratch marks. She has learnt the markings and scratches for most of the cards by now, and knows that the deck would be awful in a gambling session, but she also knows that Loki does not know that.  
  
There’s a smug look on her face as she shuffles the deck. “Then, I guess you know ‘Jingle Man Jump’?”  
  
Loki snaps his book shut and rises to his feet, obviously unwilling to allow her the advantage in height. Just for spite, Natasha sits, and Loki, not wanting to be standing for no apparent reason, is forced to reseat himself. He glares at her. She smiles at him. She continues to shuffle the deck.  
  
“Well?”  
  
Impatient, “I know the game. Continue.”  
  
“You’re sitting too far away,” she says, and after a moment’s hesitation, he rises from his chair and joins her on the sofa. Pulling the coffee table closer, she begins sharing the cards until there are five each. When she’s finished, she places the remaining stack of cards on the coffee table and grabs up her share. She eyes him over the edge of her cards. Uncertainty crosses his face for a split second before he mimics her and picks up his share as well.  
  
 _Goodbye, boredom. This is going to be fun._  
  
She selects the two of diamonds in her hand and places it face up on the coffee table. True to her assumptions, Loki searches for the card he assumes to be the highest – a king of spades – and, evidently unaware of the ways of card stacking, settles it down beside hers.  
  
He looks very pleased with himself.  
  
“Impressive,” she says, before selecting a meagre five of hearts and dropping it on his king of spades. “But, too bad: hearts beat spades in Jingle Man Jump. Of course, you knew that, right?”  
  
His pleased look turns sour. “I seem to have forgotten this rule. Although I hardly agree such a paltry figure holds dominance regardless of its race. This card,” he points at the king of spades in all its bejewelled glory, “is far more decorated and imposing.”  
  
“Yeah, well, rules are rules,” she answers in blasé tones, crossing her legs and leaning back into the sofa. “And the rules say: hearts beat spades.” Here she smirks. “But I guess either you didn’t know, or you don’t want to follow through with the rest.”  
  
“The rest?”  
  
Her gaze meanders down his black dress shirt and black pants – the only earth clothing he is willing to wear – before rising to meet his again. Jingle Man Jump is a made up game with made up rules, and a new rule has just dawned on her to introduce. Does she care that Loki will always be at a disadvantage in the game? No, because that was the whole point of it.  
  
“Stripping,” she enunciates each syllable with slow and deliberate innocence. “Every hand you lose, a piece of clothing has to come off.”  
  
He opens his mouth, ostensibly to contest this new rule, but then closes it and watches her. Then, he eyes the tops of her breasts exposed by the opened buttons on her shirt, and her bare legs on advertisement from the short pants she wears. The calculating look returns, as well as a hungriness that makes her skin warm. She knows what he’s thinking: she’s playing this game, too, therefore the possibility of her being naked before him is quite high…  
  
 _The poor thing_ , she thinks. He doesn’t even know he has absolutely no chance of winning this game. Though, it might make this all the more interesting if she tipped it in his favour just a bit.  
  
They remain silent, staring each other down, until with a sly smile curving his lips, Loki places his four remaining cards facedown on the sofa and begins to unbutton his shirt. Beneath it, he is wearing a black t-shirt that Natasha is fairly certain he has not been wearing before.  
  
She adopts a bored look and a similar tone. “You’re so scared to lose you have to cheat? Shame.”  
  
“Agent Romanov, in war, one must use every resource available to ensure victory.”  
  
She barely withholds herself from a scathing remark concerning their battle six months prior. Instead, she says: “This isn’t a war. It’s just a game, and if I catch you cheating again, it’s over. Got it?”  
  
He sneers. “You can make as many demands of me as you please, but that does not guarantee I will abide by them.”  
  
“Oh, yeah? Then why do I have a suspicion you will? I mean, it’s not everyday you’ll get the chance to see me naked, and I doubt you’ll want to jeopardize that opportunity.”  
  
“You think too highly of yourself. I can unclothe you in an instant if I wish.”  
  
Her smirk reappears. “I know. But where’s the fun in that, Loki?”  
  
“You have lived up to your name, Black Widow,” he says after a beat of silence. He grabs the hem of the t-shirt and hauls it off. He lets it fall to the floor. She wonders why he went through the trouble when he could have vanished it off. “I admit, I feel akin to the unsuspecting bug that has crawled its way into a trap.”  
  
She makes no attempt to hide her curiosity as she eyes his exposed upper half. His skin is pale, his chest hairless. He is slim and broad-shouldered, and albeit not as brawny as Thor or Steve, he is still clearly fit. Of course he is. She has seen him fight, and is aware of his incredible strength. Still, his healthy body is quite the pleasant surprise.  
  
She lifts her eyes to meet his. He has been watching her watching him. She says nothing as she returns her gaze to her cards, selects the jack of spades and lays it on the five of hearts. She looks at him again.  
  
“Your turn.”  
  
He picks up his cards, glances at them, then at her, before settling a queen of hearts on her jack of spades.  
  
Silence.  
  
Then: “‘Hearts beat spades,’ correct?”  
  
And he has the audacity to smirk.  
  
 _Ugh_. Bested at her own fictitious game. She supposes she can easily fabricate another rule that her jack trumps his queen, but he is staring at her too intently, and her timing to lie without causing suspicion has long since passed. So, for believability’s sake, Natasha unbuttons the remaining buttons on her shirt, and takes it off.  
  
“Hmm. How nice.”  
  
Regrettably, she is not wearing a bra, so her breasts are bare and available for his ogling. And he does not hesitate to do so.  
  
“What, you’ve never seen breasts before?”  
  
“I have,” he replies, smug smile still intact, “but none as admirable as yours, Agent Romanov.”  
  
“I’m flattered.” She leans over to pick up two spare cards from the remaining deck, aware of Loki’s eyes trained on her chest. Though she’s no longer wearing her shirt, her skin has grown warmer still. Undeniably, she is enjoying Loki’s attention and this sudden shift that has occurred between them. Their relationship has changed somewhat, and she knows that if this game continues, there are further – greater – changes to come.  
  
 _For instance, like us having sex right here on this sofa…_  
  
What the… _why has she never considered this before_? The idea, the _image_ of fucking Loki rises swiftly and with amazing clarity in her mind’s eye, and it is so appealing, the insides of her belly flutters in anticipation and her nipples begin to harden.  
  
“Is something the matter, Agent Romanov?” he enquires, his tone silken and low.  
  
She ignores him. “You won the last round. Your turn.”  
  
He mimics her again and pulls two new cards from the deck into his hand. Then, after a short moment, places a nine of clubs on the growing stack of played cards. She immediately follows this play with her ten of clubs.  
  
“Off with your pants,” she says, a bit too hastily for her liking.  
  
He smiles and gets to his feet. “My, you sound eager.”  
  
Again, he does not use his magic. With deliberate movements, his eyes locked with hers, he unbuckles his belt, unclasps the clasp on his pants, unzips the zip, and then lets it fall to the floor around his ankles. He steps out of it and kicks it to the side.  
  
Natasha allows her gaze to travel downwards, taking her own sweet time admiring his chest, his abdomen, and even the occasional scar marking his skin. Her eyes go lower still, past his navel…  
  
 _Very nice_.  
  
He is aroused, his cock raised and pointing directly at her as if to say, thou hath been chosen! She resists the urge to giggle. Natasha Romanov does not giggle. Moreover, this is not a giggling moment. This is a moment to sit and appreciate the astonishing magnificence that is Loki Laufeyson’s cock – a thick, firm, veined piece of flesh she has now resolved to use to its fullest extent.  
  
“Let’s play a new game,” she says, abandoning her cards on the coffee table. She slides across the sofa, closer to where he is standing. Face mere inches away from his cock, she looks up at him again. His eyes have darkened to a compelling indigo, and within them she could read his curiosity, his amusement, his want.  
  
“What sort of game?” he responds, feigning casualness.  
  
Her hand reaches up and grips him, his hips jerk against her touch. She pumps him once, twice, testing his firmness and finding it beyond satisfactory.  
  
“Something fun.” She leans her face closer, mouth hovering just over the head of his cock. His mouth opens on a deep exhale, and uncertainty crosses his face. To Natasha’s amusement, two light spots of colour manifests on his cheeks.  
  
For once, the ever suave and complacent god begins to stutter and stammer:  
  
“I-I’ve never…it’s forbidden on Asgard to…to – _ungh_!” He is unable to finish for in one fluid motion Natasha opens her mouth and sucks him as far as he can go into her mouth. His eyes squeezed shut, he gasps and says something in Asgardian which she believes to be a swear.  
  
Then, tightening her lips around him, she slowly retracts her head, flattening her tongue along the underside of his flesh until she releases him with a wet pop. She grips him again at the base, pumping him, and with the tip of her tongue laps gently at the head before swirling her tongue lazily around it. Groaning, his hand involuntarily finds its way on the top of her head, his fingers curling loosely into her hair.  
  
She takes her time on the head of his cock, licking and sucking, scraping her teeth gently against it before moving down the shaft. The tip of her tongue traces the veins and makes curlicued designs along the flesh all the way down to his balls. One hand still pumping his cock, she lifts her other hand to hold his balls in place. Then, holding his gaze, she slides off the sofa and falls to her knees before him.  
  
His hand tighten in her hair, his eyes the darkest blue she’d probably ever witnessed. Who knew such a simple act could arouse him so? But she does. She knows Loki far more intimately than she’d realised. He likes this. He likes seeing her kneel before him, servicing him – _a servant and her king_ – and while she usually baulks at any situation where she must willing play this stereotype, truth be told she likes it, too.  
  
She firms her tongue, and then lays it flat against his balls. She leaves it there, relishing the way his body grows tenser by the second, the way he’s breathing so fast and so deep, there’s a whistling sound coming from his nostrils, and the way he struggles not to make a sound and is failing miserably. When he begins to visibly tremble, she pulls her tongue away, and as he relaxes, she lays her tongue against him again.  
  
With one insistent stroke, she drags her tongue across the sensitive flesh, beginning a slow back and forth that has him gripping her hair even tighter. Her hand still moving up and down his shaft, back and forth her tongue goes, and then round and round, the tip of her tongue like a pen’s nib, writing swirling patterns and the letters of the alphabet upon his flesh. He’s shaking and gasping now, his head thrown back, unashamed that his usual cool demeanour has abandoned him as Natasha works her mouth ardently upon him.  
  
“Gods…yes… _yes…your mouth…_ ”  
  
And when she knows he can no longer withstand it, she swipes her tongue up again along his cock, before ensconcing it in the warm depths of her mouth. He bows his head to watch her, and boldly, she stares right back.  
  
“You’ve never looked more beautiful,” he says almost lovingly.  
  
She might have said thank you, but her mouth is wrapped around him, and it is bad manners to speak when one’s mouth is full. So, she continues to fuck him with her mouth, her pace languid and teasing at first. She reaches for his balls again, fondles them as she drags her lips up and down, up and down the length of his cock, loving the taste and the satiny texture of him in her mouth.  
  
And she grows greedy because she cannot wait to have him in her, filling her. So she accelerates her pace. Pumping him faster, she suctions her cheeks and bobs her head over him, her tongue swishing and swirling furiously along his shaft. Then she opens her mouth and lets the head hit the back of her throat, the sound wet and vulgar.  
  
He is slack-jawed, his eyes closed again. His hips are straining against her mouth, his hand intermittently gripping her hair. She wants him to look at her when he comes, see every single emotion etched in his face when he’s at his most vulnerable. She wills him to look at her, and as if he has heard her thoughts, his eyes drift open partially. Their gazes meet, hold, and then he’s coming, warm semen spurting into her mouth and splattering the back of her throat. He holds her stare, groaning, gasping her name interspersed with unintelligible words as she continues to suck him.  
  
When he is finished, she lets him fall free from her mouth, and making sure he’s watching her, she swallows his come.  
  
There is a ghost of a smirk on his face, and his breathing still ragged, he says: “I agree. That was fun.”  
  
She gets to her feet, ignoring the pain in her knees from kneeling for so long. Grabbing his hips, she turns him around so his back is to the sofa, then splays her hands upon his chest and pushes him to sit.  
  
Her hands already unbuttoning her short pants, a triumphant smile on her face, she says:  
  
“For _you_. Now it’s my turn.”


End file.
